


Dreams of Flying, Dreams of Falling

by SpaceCaseWriter13



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America Sam Wilson, Domestic Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes, Falling Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of family death, Nightmares, PTSD, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sam Wilson/Riley mention, Steve Rogers/ Sam Wilson mention, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Trailers, mention of partner death, mention of racial profiling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCaseWriter13/pseuds/SpaceCaseWriter13
Summary: For as long as he could remember, Sam Wilson had always dreamed of flying. Now, his nights are plagued with nightmares of falling and a sinking sensation that he just won’t quite measure up to Steve Rogers as he takes on the mantle of Captain America. Fortunately, James “Bucky” Barnes, is ready with warm milk and kind words to help Sam along as he tries to figure it all out.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	Dreams of Flying, Dreams of Falling

**Author's Note:**

> The Mouse owns what it owns, and I own what I own. Let’s keep it that way.
> 
> Just thought this would be a fun way to cap out 2020 with a bit of Sam/Bucky fluff. Enjoy!

For as long as Sam Wilson could remember, he had dreamed of flying. Not just in a plane or helicopter. He’d wanted to fly like a bird, feeling the wind against his face and the roar of the air in his ears. He’d wanted to capture the carefree feeling of weightlessness.

When he’d been a kid, growing up, there’d been this hill outside of his mom and dad’s house. Every summer, he’d spend his days pedaling up that hill, just so he could fly down it as fast as he could. Over and over, he’d climb to the top of that hill, sweat streaming down his back, just so he could momentarily feel that wind, and feel that lift in his stomach, and that shot of adrenaline.

That had stopped when one summer, at the age of twelve, he crashed into the side of a police cruiser, parked at the bottom of the hill, when he’d taken a turn too sharp.

_Where you going in such a hurry?_

_Where you been, boy?_

_Suspicious_

_Matches the description._

He’d ended up cuffed in the back of the cruiser. Fortunately, his father had seen the whole thing happen and had been able to talk the officers into letting him go.

But Sam had seen the seriousness in his father’s expression, and as Sam had dragged his mangled bike into the garage, he’d known even at that age black boys like him couldn’t afford to be carefree in a world that wanted to drag them down.

This lesson was further reinforced when six months later, his father was killed. After that, Sam put away all notions of flying, all notions of being weightless and carefree. He had his family to look after, and his mother couldn’t take another loss like losing his father.

Still, he dreamt.

He dreamt of winning a scholarship, going off to school, earning money enough to take care of his mom and siblings. But college was expensive, and the recruiter had promised a many great number of things that had sounded _enticing_ to a young black man from a poor family.

So, at eighteen years old, Sam had signed his life away to the Air Force. It wasn’t the Army or Marines, which had pleased mamma Wilson. The Air Force wasn’t quite as dangerous in her eyes, and so when the day came, she’d been able been able to smile with pride through her tears as she waved him off to basic.

There, through luck and miracles, he’d been selected to fly for real. It had been everything he’d imagined and more. The roar of the wind and the rush of adrenaline and the clear vast open sky. And he hadn’t been alone. He’d met a man who’d dreamed flight and loved the thrill of it all. Riley Underdahl. Crazy white boy. He quickly became Sam’s wingman on and off the ground, and they’d been inseparable. At times it felt as though they shared a telepathic link, able to predict the other’s thoughts and movements with just a glance or a motion. They’d been connected by something intangible but quite definitely _real._ Real enough to touch and to hold, and to _have._ As real as their ability to soar through the air like birds. And when Sam was with Riley, it felt like flying, even when his feet were firmly planted on the ground.

And in his way, in the way that Sam had hoped such good things could last forever, Sam had thought he’d spent the rest of his life with Riley.

But then he hadn’t. And Sam had been powerless to stop Riley from falling, even with all his power, all his might, it was like he’d only been up there to watch.

Sam had watched him fall. And for the first time, Sam stopped having dreams about flying.

That was when he’d started having dreams about falling.

Sam had been able to hold his shit together long enough to get through the remainder of his tour, but upon his return stateside, he’d woken up screaming Rileys name so frequently it had been abnormal for him to get a full night’s uninterrupted sleep.

Yet, that too had passed with time and therapy, and the dreams about flying had returned just about the same time that Steve rogers had walked…well run into his life. Like with Riley, Steve had offered him a chance to fly again, had given him the chance to save the world.

And for a while, once again, Sam had gained a wingman. Someone unafraid of falling. Someone who _dreamed_ of flying, just the way he had been not so long ago.

To be fair to Steve Rogers, that son of a bitch hadn’t been afraid of anything, and that type of energy had been infectious. Lured in by that energy, that charisma, that earnest desire to do right no matter what, Sam found in no time flat he’d gone from being a soldier to being an Avenger, then a fugitive. But he’d been there, shoulder to shoulder with Steve, them against the world, against whatever threat that came at them. And again, Sam could imagine himself with Steve, forever, to whatever end that might come for them.

Then Thanos had happened, and for five years, Sam had been one of the missing, one of the fallen.

When he, and the other half of the population, had returned Sam had found Steve, and all those marked by the five-year absence changed. Steve knew what it meant to fall, and had fallen for five years as he tried desperately to undo what he’d been powerless to stop. And it had changed Steve. Wounded him beyond description, in ways so painful and deep that Sam was only now beginning to understand what it meant.

He’d known something of that grief, but only gained an idea of how deep that five years had cut when Steve had given him the Shield and all of the responsibility attached to being Captain America. An honor, legacy, and responsibility to live up to and live down in the same breath.

After that, it hadn’t taken long for the dreams of flying to turn into dreams of falling. Once again, Sam was alone, falling from a place that had once brought him peace and joy.

_-_

_Higher and higher, he soared. The air cool, the sun warm, the familiar hum of his wings as they propelled him through the air filling his spine and chest, making his fingertips tingle._

_Sam knew this part well. The joy. The weightlessness. The agile, nimble feeling of walking on air._

_He knew this. He was born for this._

_So higher, he flew, cutting effortlessly through the clear blue sky, not a single cloud on the horizon. His cheeks hurting for the broad smile that he held on his face, savoring that weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach as he dove and spun and whirled._

_But then. He felt it—the weight, like a hand pushing down between his shoulder blades. The horizon waved and warbled as he was forced down by the invisible weight._

_He didn’t scream, didn’t panic as he began running diagnostics, trying to salvage whatever power he had left to coast to a safe landing._

_Then, Sam could hear the gears and mechanisms whining and grinding and then start to overheat. There was the smell of burning electronics and plastic, and his mind went numb as the wings went limp. And like a wet kite, he dropped toward the earth._

_Down, down, down, he plummeted. Not so much falling as being dragged down. His efforts futile as his emergency chute failed to deploy. And he felt himself scream, or rather try to scream, but the wind pulled it away into nothing._

_The air was heavy now, and he felt the full weight of gravity as it crushed him, his own weight pulling him down. He could breathe, his lungs collapsing in the free fall, and he gasped, more a drowning man than an Icarus._

_The ground was coming, closer and closer, and he couldn’t look away, couldn’t squeeze his eyes shut or raise his hands to shield himself from the impact. The sheer terror paralyzing him as he waited for the inevitable._

And then, Sam woke with a jolt.

His mind and body were somehow sensible enough not to scream, as if aware that it would draw the attention of his roommate and cause _more_ of a scene than he cared to deal with presently.

Yet, despite himself, Sam found that he was shaking, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, making his sheets stick to him as his chest heaved. His mind racing as tears streaked his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and started to count.

“One…two…” he counted off in a low whisper as he worked to ground himself.

He was in his bed. In his bed. In his shitty apartment.

“Three…four…”

The mattress was soft, but not too soft, and he could feel the flat sheet clinging to his skin, tangled up in his legs.

“Five…six…”

He could hear his alarm clock ticking from the bedside table on his right.

“Seven…eight…”

He could feel his breath entering and leaving his body, slow and controlled.

“Nine…ten…”

Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows and then further into a sitting position. His heart was still racing, and his breath still catching in his lungs, but it wasn’t the overwhelming sensation it had been only a minute before.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he planted his feet firmly on the floor and glanced at his bedside table. 2:30 A.M. the clock announced in its bright red display, and Sam rubbed his face with a weary hand.

Licking his chapped lips, he glanced around the room for something to drink, his throat scratchy and his mouth parched. Rising, he pulled on a bright purple sweatshirt over his t-shirt and boxers and then walked, still shaking, out of his room toward the kitchen beyond.

The lights were on, the TV on at a low hum. It was tuned into CNN, or was it MSNBC? One of the 24-hour news networks and Sam watched a moment as the news ticker scrolled by, announcing the hour’s latest headlines.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Sam looked up and over to meet the direct gaze of his roommate, James “Bucky” Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, standing in the kitchen, in a grey hoodie and blue-grey sweatpants.

Even though they’d been living together for almost four months, it was still strange to see him in anything other than his ‘work clothes.’ Of course, the decision to move in together had been made out of convenience more than anything else. They’d been deployed as a team, were partners in the field, and had worked closely together over the past months. So when it had come time to try to set down a base of operation, it had seemed logical that they should share an apartment. On the plus side, there’d been no need for those tedious "roommate wanted" ads or the process of having to screen someone for suitability. However, it did make the question of who would water their house plants a bit more difficult when they were both sent on assignment together.

And somehow, despite their tumultuous beginnings, when Barnes had yanked the steering wheel out of Sam’s car on the highway going something approaching 100 miles per hour, they’d managed to tolerate one another in close proximity as both partners in the field and as roommates.

“Something like that.” Sam managed, his voice ragged with the slightest hoarseness of nightmares. He surveyed Barnes carefully, watching as he stirred the contents of a saucepan steaming on the stove, waiting for the other man to call him on his bullshit. The apartment walls were thin, Barnes knew why Sam was awake, or at least he knew that Sam was having nightmares.

“Would you like some warm milk?” He commented as Sam concluded his inspection.

Sam furrowed his brow. “Warm milk? Is that what you’re up doing at this hour?”

At this, Barnes chuckled weakly and nodded. “It was something my mother would do when me or my sisters couldn’t sleep. I figure—I uh—I figured I should give it a shot, see if it was more than just a placebo.”

“So you heard…” Sam couldn’t quite make himself form the words as a feeling of shame built in his chest, squeezing his lungs, threatening to choke him.

“I was already up.” He explained, his eyes down on the saucepan. “And I made extra, just in case.”

But of course, it would make sense that Barnes would be up. That man had more skeletons in his closet than Sam cared to think about and knew enough about the types of skeletons to understand why Barnes would be dealing with as many sleepless nights as he was. Sure, Barnes had done a stint with the Wakandans to help with the programming the two years Sam and the other secret avengers had been on the run, but Sam could only assume that the Princess had been able to do so much in the way of unwanted bad memories.

“So warm milk, huh?” Sam ventured as he slowly approached the kitchen island where the cooktop was situated.

“Mhm, hmmm.” He hummed, his face down so that the most Sam could see was his messy bed head.

“ So _just_ warm milk, or do you add something else?” He continued.

“Just milk. Why, did you have something you’d like to add in mind, Wilson?” Barnes glanced up, shooting him a quick glance with those piercing blue eyes, so bright and intense that Sam almost didn’t see the heavy bags under his eyes.

“Had a Jamaican girlfriend for a bit who swore by molasses and milk before bed.” Sam shrugged as casually as he could manage while still attempting to play it cool.

“Did it work?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Well, I’ll put it on the grocery list so we can give it a try next time,” Barnes said with the certainty that there _would_ be a next time. After all, why wouldn’t there be? “Grab a couple of mugs for me, would you, Sam?” He called distantly as he continued to whisk the milk.

Obliging with a nod, Sam removed a pair of mugs from the cabinet and set them beside Barnes’s left elbow before moving back across the island watching the nearly hypnotic motion of the whisk in the frothy, steaming milk, hissing in the saucepan. It was almost like those meditation practices, or ASMR, calming, and mind-clearing. Yet through it, his mind managed to venture back to the nightmare. That sensation of falling, the helpless feeling knowing that all efforts to save himself were futile, that wasn’t new. He’d had that type of dream after Riley died.

The dreams recently were different. He wasn’t just falling. He was being dragged, pulled downward as if he was drowning, rather than falling through the air. What had changed? Why was he feeling like this?

“Where was Sam Wilson?” He was pulled from his thoughts, and his attention was drawn to the TV where a pundit was positioned front and center, their co-hosts nodding along knowingly. “How can we trust him when he and Steve Rogers were fugitives from the law for two years? And now he’s running around with James Barnes, an international war criminal. If he’s going to be Captain America, then he _needs_ to prove that he’s worthy of that shield. The events of last April aside—”

“Yeah, we’re done with you.” The screen went dark, and Sam turned to Barnes, who had the remote in hand, a disgusted expression on his face.

Sam looked down and away as Barnes set the remote back on the counter with measured movements. Shame welled in his chest. But of course, _that’s_ what had changed. The shield is what had changed. Being Captain America, or trying to be Captain America, had changed everything. It was a challenge he’d accepted, one that he appreciated the weight and legacy of, but something that he _wanted._ It just felt as though even if he _wanted_ the damn thing, he was never going to _be_ Captain America, no matter how much he tried, no matter what he thought or pretended or felt.

“You didn’t have to turn it off,” Sam said, even as he could feel his hands start to shake, his palms sweaty, the sensation of being dragged down, down, down still fresh in his mind.

Barnes didn’t say anything, instead occupying himself with pouring equal servings of milk into the mugs Sam had retrieved from the cupboards. Leaving Sam’s mind to run away with itself, that one sentence, maybe even two sentences boring into his brain.

_If he’s going to be Captain America, he needs to prove that he’s worthy of that shield._

Was he worthy? Could he be worthy? He’d been struggling since he’d been given the shield. Had Steve struggled like this? Let's face it. He wasn’t Steve Rogers. No one could possibly live up to that. Had Steve gotten it wrong by giving Sam the shield? Or was he just not the man that Steve had thought he was?

Down, down, down, he was being dragged under by the weight of it.

“Don’t listen to them, Sam. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” Barnes’s voice interjected itself gently through the maelstrom of his mind, and Sam looked up to find him extending one of the mugs to him.

“Thanks.” Sam managed through a gritted jaw as he took the mug from him.

“Yeah, no problem.” He replied, and they both stood a moment at the island, sipping the warm milk from their mugs.

“What if they’re right. What if I’m not cut out to be Captain America?” Sam blurted out, breaking the silence that had gathered around them, giving his anxiety and uncertainty voice.

“They’re not right because they don’t know what they’re talking about,” Barnes answered shortly after a moment.

“Oh? And you do?” Sam snapped, a bit more bite in his voice than he’d intended.

The question hung in the air a moment, and Sam kept his eyes down in his mug, the slightest tinge of embarrassment and guilt souring in the pit of his stomach. Even if Barnes had said it just to be nice, it was still more than expected and, at this point, deserved.

“Look.” Barnes began slowly, his voice low. “All I know is that a whole bunch of these people think they _know_ what Captain America _is_ or _should_ be. People love to forget that Steve Rogers only became Captain America because he lied multiple times on his enlistment forms. He only got to be Captain America the soldier, rather than Captain America the bonds salesman and propaganda piece because he parachuted behind enemy lines without orders to save several hundred guys and me from the 107. People don’t like to acknowledge that Steve never got anywhere by being what people expected or even wanted him to be.” He paused, taking a long draw from his mug before he continued. “But really, none of that matters. Steve is gone, and he left the shield to you. So now it’s up to you to decide what to do with that shield, and what it _means_ to you be Captain America.”

“What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t be enough.” Sam said weakly, feeling slightly water headed as he spoke.

“But you are, Sam,” Barnes answered firmly.

Sam scoffed into his mug, blinking back tears that were forming just behind his eyes. “I’m a black man in America, Barnes. I have to be twice as good to get a fraction of the respect. I won’t ever be enough to deserve the shield in their eyes.”

The words tumbled out of him, unable to stop them, and unsure of why he was telling Barnes all of this. Perhaps it was because they’d both known Steve, both been friends, been partners, and lovers to a man who’s legacy was larger than life, with shoes too big for any man to fill, never mind a poor black kid who’s biggest aspiration in life had been to fly. Why had Steve done this to him? Why choose him? Why not Barnes? Why pass the mantle down at all? There could only ever be one Steve Rogers. Did there need to be more than one Captain America?

Down, down, down further and further, the weight dragged him down.

“Then maybe those people shouldn’t get a say in who gets to be Captain America or what Captain America means,” Barnes said slowly.

“What?” Sam looked up to meet the other man’s gaze, which was firm and direct, shining bright in the kitchen's low lights.

“No one ever said that Captain America should be a reflection of what America _is._ ” He said with a slight shrug. “That would alter the requirements _dramatically._ ”

“You thinking white bedsheets?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Something like that, and I really don’t think white robes would suit you well.”

“Thanks for that, Barnes.” Sam snorted.

“My point is, _Wilson._ You’re the best of what America could be, of what it _should_ be.” Barnes replied, finishing off his milk; he set the mug down on the counter with a ‘click.’

Sam paused, taking in the other man’s expression. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or humor in his face, his expression firm and steady as he surveyed him as closely as Sam was surveying him. “You really mean that?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“Huh,” Sam slouched slightly as he put his mug down on the counter. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected out of him, but it hadn’t been this. “Thanks?” He proffered uncertainly, struggling to find a way to keep the silence from moving in again.

Barnes nodded again, shoving both hands into his hoodie pocket. There was a long pause as he contemplated what to say next. “And for what it’s worth, Sam. _I_ think you’re doing just fine as Cap.”

Sam felt tears welling behind his eyes. He and Barnes had gotten closer over the past months, but it wasn’t like they’d had many heart-to-hearts. Not like this. And now… “You’re not going all soft on me, are you, Barnes?” Sam managed to deflect with a light laugh. 

“God, you’re a pain in the ass.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head but then paused, his expression growing serious again. “But you don’t have to deal with these assholes on your own.” Barnes trailed off, the implication that _he’d_ be more than happy to take care of them Winter Soldier style, louder than he ever could’ve verbalized

“I’ll keep you posted on that,” Sam nodded, collecting the mugs and setting them in the sink to deal with in the morning. “And thank you for the milk.”

“We’ll have to try it with molasses next time.”

“That we will.” Sam agreed, barely stifling a big yawn.

“You headed off to bed?” Barnes asked, his eyes searching, the slightest note of disappointment in his voice.

“Not sure I could fall back asleep now. You?” Sam lied.

“Was going to catch some Golden Girl's re-runs that are about to start playing here in a few…” Barnes paused. “If you’d like to join me?”

“Golden Girls? You? Really?” Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, I—”

“I’ll stay up and watch a few episodes with you.” Sam cut Barnes off before he could stammer out a defense.

Piling on the couch shoulder to shoulder, they dimmed the lights and turned on Golden Girls. Sam felt himself relax as if weights had been lifted from his shoulders and chest. For the moment, he could breathe. For the moment, it didn’t feel like the weight of being Captain America was dragging him down.

Tomorrow, the fight would continue. The struggle would return, with the doubt and uncertainty, but for now, his mind was still, and his thoughts were quiet.

_You’re the best of what America could be, should be._

This coming from the guy Sam had fly kicked in the head on multiple occasions. It made Sam feel warm and fuzzy in a way he hadn’t quite expected.

Sam had had more than his share of doubts about Barnes when they’d first started working together. He’d always gotten the feeling that he was only sticking around to help him out of some obligation to Steve to look out for Sam when Steve had gone. But now? Sam knew that he had a _friend_ in his corner.

“Hey, Bucky?”

“Hmm?” He answered, his eyes glued to the screen, the TV illuminating his face in the darkroom. 

“Thank you.”

Bucky turned, his eyes wrinkled in a smile. “Not going soft on me, are you Captain Bird Brains?”

“Now who’s being a pain in the ass, Metal Man?”

“Anytime,” Bucky said, clapping his right hand on Sam’s left shoulder, his eyes bright, his expression twisted into a soft grin.

“But really. Thank you.”

Lightly squeezing his shoulder, Bucky nodded, retracting his hand again and returning all focus to the screen. Nothing more was said as they both slowly drifted off as the white noise of the TV lulled them like a siren’s call back toward the realm of sleep—the very concept of nightmares now far, far away.

-

For as long he could remember, Sam Wilson dreamed of flying. Seeking that next rush of adrenaline, that feeling of weightlessness, the roar of the wind as is whooshed around him. There was danger, and there was loss, and there were sacrifices which he’d endured in that ever-present desire to fly. It was a desire that had drawn him over the course of his life to others who, in their own ways, had wanted to fly too. And they’d fallen, and in his own way, he’d fallen with them. But falling was always a risk when you decided to take a leap in an attempt to soar. So he’d fall, and he’d fall again, but perhaps for the first time in a long time, Sam knew he’d have someone to reach out and catch him, encourage him, and keep him from falling.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d keep Barnes from falling too. Or perhaps, they’d get a chance to fall together. Only time could tell for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope Y’all enjoyed! It was my first venture into SamBucky, and I hope to explore their relationship more as we go along! Happy Reading!


End file.
